The Violet Yet to Bloom
by Mitsuki10191
Summary: At twenty five, Violet Baudelaire has courted misfortune all her life, and has secluded herself inside an old, drafty mansion, away from the rest of humanity.  But what happens when a lost sailor washes ashore on Violet's island and looks to her for help?
1. Chapter 1

The storm raged on outside the windows of the old, drafty house that stood alone on Baudelaire Island, rattling the windows and fighting a fierce war with the fire in the large hearth that tried to beat back the chill and gloom. The power had long since gone out, so a few candles were placed here and there, the wax melting slowly but steadily and pooling in the candle holders.

It was a big house, more castle than anything, really, though the one who owned it would never have referred to it as such. There were five bedrooms in the stone building, a sprawling library, a kitchen and dining room, and various other rooms that spread out over four stories and up into the two towers. One tower was a bedroom, the other a spot where one might look out and see the vast ocean and, if one strained their eyes a bit, the dark green on the horizon that was land.

Not that one would be able to see that tonight, with the wind screaming over the water and rain pelting down, with angry black clouds blocking the moon and stars and any other light. Beyond the window, rain pelted down, hard and unforgiving as miniature bullets shot from the dark sky.

To the one who lived here, this weather was normal, expected, even welcomed, if truth be told. In such horrid weather, no one would dare try and come to this private little island, disturbing the relative peace and trespassing on land that welcomed no visitors. Of course, no one ever tried to visit anyway. The jagged rocks mere yards from the sea-level sand beds were quite daunting, as were the sweeping cliffs on the higher part of the island, the crescent-shaped bit of forest that wrapped around the middle part of the island and up to the cliffs.

Between all of that, just inside the trees and yards from the white sand, was where the Baudelaire Estate had stood for centuries, uninhabited but for the past few years. On an island just less than three miles all the way around, Baudelaire Estate remained the only house that stood; the only building that disrupted the wildlife. And it was the way the one who resided there preferred it.

After all, the one who resided within these drafty walls had always dragged misfortune along with them. And any who had gotten close to this individual had ended up dead or otherwise gone from their life due to various 'unfortunate' events. A series of them, one might say.

And all of them had ultimately led to this, a lonely individual living in self-imposed solitude, with nothing but memories and books to keep them company.

Violet Baudelaire sat in the big, generously cushioned chair in front of the snapping fire, a thin shawl around her shoulders to ward off the chill that still remained in the room. Reading by candlelight, she had her bare feet tucked up under her, a cup of tea on the table beside her. Her hair was down and loose, her long, slim body covered in an old fashioned sleeping gown that fell to her ankles, the sleeves billowing to just above her elbows.

She was a pretty woman, and some might have said beautiful if they'd ever had occasion to see her smile. Her raven hair brushed her shoulders in a straight fall, a few wispy bangs framing her wise brown eyes that were very often dark and blank. She had lived alone in this sprawling house for seven years, since leaving her adopted sister Beatrice in a foster home. Better there, she'd thought, than with a sister who forever courted misfortune.

It had been eleven years since the ship carrying her family away from Ishmael's island had hit the rocks and sank, since she'd failed to protect her siblings. Misfortune had taken Klaus and Sunny that day, sparing the eldest and the youngest in a twist of fate Violet would never understand. Her two siblings and closest friends had lost their lives, while she'd lost nothing but the ribbon she'd had tied in her hair. For four years after staggering onto the sands of Briny Beach with Beatrice clutched in her arms, she'd done her best to keep that same misfortune from claiming Beatrice, moving them from foster home to foster home, forever wary of staying in one place for too long, from getting attached to any particular person, any particular place.

And then she'd turned eighteen, and had left Beatrice, had left behind the rest of humanity and come here, to the place now known as Baudelaire Island, using all of her knowledge and know-how to fix up the old mansion that had stood empty for generations. It was her place, her sanctuary; even if to the rest of the world it was known as a cursed place, a dangerous piece of land that forever had storm clouds over it.

She never left this place, this island, not for any reason. Her food and other necessities were flown in from the mainland, her clothes purchased through catalogue. She kept herself from the rest of humanity, contenting herself with her books, her inventions, and the house that always seemed to require some new repair. The patent money from various inventions kept her quite financially stable, and so she lived, year after year, unnoticed and separated from the rest of humanity.

That was, of course, until on this particular stormy night, when the wind was high and the dark all-encompassing, somebody knocked at her door.

It took her a moment, of course, to recognize the banging on the front door as knocking. Not once, in all these years, had anyone ever come to her door. It was ridiculous. Drawing her shawl tighter around her shoulders, she slipped silently from her chair, striding quickly down the hallway towards the front door, candle in hand.

Knowing a glance out the window would show her nothing, she took a breath, flipping the lock on the front door and swinging it open. And there, standing on her front steps, was a man. Not just any man, mind you, but a bleeding man. Not just a bleeding man, but a bleeding man who fell to his knees as soon as he saw her. Not only a man on his knees, but a man who uttered simply 'Oh, good God' before he dropped to a dead faint, the upper half of his body falling inside the house.

And it was then, in Violet Baudelaire's twenty fifth year of existence, that she quickly found her solitude broken by a nameless stranger who looked about ready to die on her front porch. Somehow, this did not surprise her.


	2. Chapter 2

Broderick Elton Warfield, known as Brody to everyone but his mother, had never been a particularly religious man. Neither was he a man given to having his mind filled with fantasy. But the first time he laid eyes on the brown eyed beauty that opened the door to his refuge, he sent up a silent prayer to God almighty. And the only thing he could think as his legs dropped out from under him was that fate had plopped him down face to face with the most beautiful of enchantresses.

Of course, though always a man who enjoyed a good flirt with the ladies, Brody wasn't particularly at his best on this particular evening. Before he'd managed to drag himself to the mysterious woman's doorstep, his ship had been tossed about by the vicious waves, smashing it into the jagged rocks that ringed the island and sending him plummeting into the unforgiving black waters.

The waves had tossed him about to and fro, pulling him under and spitting him out again, plowing him into rocks and dragging him down over his head. But he'd fought the waters, and had finally, finally felt sand beneath his feet as he'd dragged himself from the water. And there, with a single candle in the window like a beacon of hope, had been the island castle, just across the sand.

He'd kept his eyes on that single light the whole time as he'd staggered, crawled, and dragged himself along the beach, blood seeping from wounds, his head pounding from what was sure to be a very nasty concussion. More than once he'd almost given up, almost simply laid his head in the sand and let the dark overpower him.

But he'd kept going, refusing to die so far from home, a lost sailor with the remains of his boat floating in the vast ocean. And he'd reached the light, reached the door that would leave to safety, to refuge. And when that door opened, when his eyes locked on a dark brown gaze, his fevered brain had said that maybe he'd be able to die happily now after all.

He burned with fever. That was Violet's main concern as she stripped off what remained of the man's shirt, ran a wet cloth over the various gouges and gashes that marred his tanned flesh. She'd managed to drag his tall, muscled frame into the sitting room, laying him out on the long, generous couch that normally she might've curled up in to read or daydream. Never had that piece of furniture been put to use in quite such a way as this.

Though his skin was hot to the touch, he shivered and shuddered as though freezing. With some pity, Violet left him for a moment to fetch a blanket, to add logs to the fire in the hearth. He was soaked to the bone, she noted, and only sighed once before she went about the mildly annoying task of undressing him. She did it as a doctor might, with cool eyes and steady hands.

At the moment, he was not a man, but a victim in need of help. Laying what remained of the clothes she'd removed from his body out before the fire, she covered him to the waist with the blanket, keeping her mind blank as she tended to his wounds, wiped the feverish sweat from his brow.

She did not know who this man was, or where he came from, nor did she care. Whoever he was, she would see to his hurts, would tend him until he was well enough to be on his feet again. And as soon as he was, she would send him back where he came from. But most of all, she would send him off her island. As long as he was here, after all, she was denied her solitude. And that just would not do.

It had been many years since she'd had human contact. Even though this human happened to be unconscious, he was human all the same, and therefore she was just as clueless as to what she would do when he actually woke up. Just because she'd closed off her heart didn't mean her heart didn't still beat, didn't mean she couldn't still feel the useless emotions of pity and compassion. As much as she tried to suppress them, they rose up in her now, had her pressing her cool palm to his fevered cheek, laying a wet cloth over his forehead.

"You've come a long way just to die now, sailor. If I can't help you live, I pray God takes you quickly." She murmured, brushing his wet, matted hair back from his eyes. Those eyes had been gray, she remembered, a misty, swirling gray. And in those eyes, during that moment he'd looked at her, she'd seen what she hoped to be strength enough to live through this.

Because he still shivered, she stood again, layered blankets on top of him, tucking them around him until he was all but cocooned in them. Using a bath towel, she dried his hair. It was just a bit too long, she noted, a shaggy fall of auburn curls.

With a small sigh, she brushed those curls back from his face, paused when the movement had his lashes fluttering a bit, lifting just a fraction so she could see only a slit of blurry gray.

"…Princess in the castle…" He murmured, and immediately fell back into sleep again as she blinked, stared at him for a moment.

"Well…There's nothing wrong with your voice, at least. Try to stay alive through the night, if you please." She said, patting his freshly bandaged soldier, and walked over to her chair.

And while he spent the night trying to stay alive, she spent it staying awake, watching over him as the storm raged on. Every now and then she would rise to soothe him as the fever peaked and sent him into confusing dreams, or wipe the sweat from him brow. And then she would go back and sit down, her tea growing cold beside her.

And when morning came, she sat there still, waiting for the sun to rise. Both of them had made it through the night. Time would soon tell if it would be enough.


	3. Chapter 3

He knew she watched over him, though for how long he wouldn't have been able to say. For sixteen hours he floated in and out of reality, dragged down by fever, pulled up again by the feel of her cool hand on his brow. Whenever he surfaced, all the aches and pains made themselves known, making him sink back into the dark just for the momentary relief.

He knew she spoke to him, though what exactly she said he couldn't remember. All he knew was her voice kept him fighting back the dark that threatened to overtake him, had him struggling to open his eyes and see her face, just once more.

Every now and then he would feel her lift his head and cool, gloriously cool water would slide down his dry throat, which had been ravaged by swallowing the ocean's salty water. Or sometimes it wouldn't be water at all, but some strange tonic that would put him into an easy, dreamless sleep, easing the pain for just a while.

He wanted, very much, to open his eyes, to fight his way out of this sleep-like healing state that the fever had put him in. He wanted, more than he could explain, to see her face again, to hear her voice clearly, the voice of the woman who had so quickly become his savior. And there was no doubt in his blurred mind that she was his savior. He knew, sure as anything, that she'd been caring for him.

Whenever the fever sent chills down his spine, he'd feel a new layer of heat wrapped around him. Whenever the dreams had him mumbling things he couldn't hold back, he would feel her hand running soothingly over his hair. She cared for him as a mother might, and he could only be grateful.

And with that gratitude was a desire to look this mysterious woman in the eye and thank her. It frustrated him to no end, even in this state, that he was incapable of doing even that.

So when, approximately sixteen hours after falling at her feet, Brody's fever broke and his eyes opened, he simply stared at her for a moment. Of course, part of that moment had to be used to clear the cobwebs from his brain, to force himself to focus. And once he managed to focus, he felt his heart skip a beat.

She was curled up in the chair beside the couch, her head tilted away from the late afternoon sun that shone through the window. There was a book in her lap, a cold cup of tea at her elbow, and a brown cat dozing at the foot of the chair. And she was, even he could see, completely asleep.

Drawing a hand out from the cocoon of blankets he was wrapped in, Brody ran a hand over his face, winced when his fingers rubbed at bruises and bandages. Even the simple movement of raising his arm to his face suddenly seemed to take the same effort as climbing Mt. Everest. Every inch of his body was heavy and achy, unwilling to move.

Though he'd made no sound, he watched her eyes drift open, lock directly on him. For a moment, they simply stared at each other, he flat on his back on the couch, she sitting up in her chair. And then she sighed, rising silently and gracefully to her feet.

"Have you decided to stay with us this time, then?" She asked, and he was sorry for the fatigue he saw in her eyes, for the shadows beneath them. But he said nothing, merely continued to watch her as she walked over, rested a hand on his brow for a moment.

"You're fever has gone down, at least. And your eyes are clearer." She spoke softly, in a drifting voice that made it seem like her mind was elsewhere.

Though the move cost him energy he didn't have to spare, he reached up, took her hand in his, hot against cold. Though her hand stiffened in his, he held on, locked his gaze with hers once more.

"Who…who are you?" His voice was raspy, but still understandable, and she sighed again before drawing her hand away.

"I'm Violet Baudelaire. This is my island." She glanced over when the cat leaped up onto the arm of the couch, began to tread on top of Brody's feet. With a low murmur, she reached over and drew the cat into her arms, petting it to soothe.

"No, Quigley, you mustn't step on strangers." Showing more affection for the cat than she ever would for a human, she kissed the top of its head before setting it on the floor, shooing it along. When she focused on Brody again, he was smiling at her in a way that made her want to squirm.

"Hi, Violet, I'm Brody. And I think I'm in love with you."

And it was then, while the afternoon sun shined through the window and her cat washed itself beneath the coffee table, that Violet Baudelaire wished she'd never opened the front door.


	4. Chapter 4

He knew he'd flustered her. For just a moment, before her face had gone blank again, he'd seen the shock, the wariness. Then she'd sighed, and even those flitting emotions had disappeared.

"Yes, well, you hit your head quite hard." She finally said, and had his lips quirking.

"In any case, I'm grateful for all you've done. You treated me yourself when it would've been easier to call the doctor." He said, grateful when she reached over, grabbed a glass of water. Lifting it to his lips, she watched him drink, easing the burn in his throat.

"What doctor? I said this was my island. No one else lives on these grounds. You chose a very inconvenient spot to crash your ship, sailor." She said, glancing out the window, across the sand to where the waves now rolled gently to the shore. And there, on the rocks just out to sea, were a few jagged remains of a small ship. And for just a moment, she saw a different ship wreck, a different set of rocks, and a different beach. And it reminded her why this man must leave as soon as possible.

"There's…no one else here? You live here alone?" He asked, watching her as she stared out the window, and at her small nod, his heart ached for her.

"It must be lonely." This time she looked at him, raising a brow.

"It is how I prefer to live. You're welcome here until your wounds are healed, Brody. Then I'll arrange for you to be brought back to the mainland. Your family must be worried." She said, lifting another glass to his lips, and this time he tasted the sweet tonic that had helped heal him. The same tonic, he remembered, that had sent him into sleep.

"No…No, they're not worried. I'm grateful, Violet." He felt sleep pulling at him again, and instead of fighting it he let it take him this time. So it was with a sigh of his own that he closed his eyes and let the dark swallow him.

While he slept, Violet showered, slipping into a summer dress. Quigley wound around her feet as she stood in the kitchen, brewing a pot of tea and stirring broth on the stove. He'd be hungry when he awoke, she thought, and tried to think of him as a patient instead of a man. As a patient, her main concern was healing him. As a man, her main concern was keeping misfortune from snatching him before she could get him off the island. Healing was much easier.

While the tea steeped and the broth simmered, Violet distracted herself with mindless tasks, wiping down the counters, setting out food for Quigley. She was pouring tea into cups when she heard a sound behind her.

Glancing over her shoulder, she nearly fumbled the teapot, felt her heart skip a beat. Propped in the doorway, a blanket wrapped around his waist, his chest covered in bandages and bruises, was Brody, his face pale from the effort of standing, his breathing heavy.

Narrowing her eyes, Violet set down the teapot, her face set in stern lines of disapproval. "Now what is it you think you're doing? You're in no shape to be standing up. Get back to the couch, sailor." She said, and the look he sent her could only be termed a pout. Imagine, she thought, a grown man pouting.

"I'm tired of lying down. Can't I sit at the table, Vi?" He asked, looking ever so pathetic, and she sighed, rolling her eyes as she walked over and pulled out a chair.

"Fine, you may sit at the table. But don't start crying when you fall flat on your face. It's too soon for you to be moving about." Because she was afraid that he actually would fall over, she walked over to him, wrapping an arm around him and taking most of his weight as she led him to the table, settled him down in the chair.

"I'm grateful, Violet." He said, slouching in the chair, and she sighed, walking over to take a cup of tea and bring it to him.

"So you've said. You've a strange way of showing that gratitude, sailor. You'll have some broth." She said in a tone that gave way for no arguments, and when she carried a thick bowl of steaming broth over to the table, his stomach rumbled in a way that had her lips curving, just the slightest bit.

"Eat it all now, like a good lad." She said, placing a spoon in his hand, and watched until he took the first spoonful. Satisfied that he would eat, she nodded, carrying her own tea over to the kitchen window. Because her back was to him, she didn't know he stared at her as he ate. Perhaps, if she had, she'd have been prepared for his question.

"You're always looking out the windows. Why not just go outside?" He asked, and instead of replying she sipped her tea, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear.

"I go out when it pleases me. But I've you to see to at the moment, so it wouldn't do to wander too far. What had you sailing by my island in the first place, sailor?" She asked, and he noted vaguely that she never used his name. Deciding not to mention it, he shrugged, and immediately regretted it as the movement sent pain shooting through him.

"I was just doing some pleasure sailing, and the storm came out of nowhere. It's like it was only around the island, and everywhere else was nothing but smooth waters and clear night sky. The waves grabbed my boat, pulled me into the storm, into the rocks. It's a dangerous land you've surrounded yourself with, Violet." He said, and she shrugged, an elegant movement of her shoulders.

"It's what I prefer. It usually deters visitors." She spoke softly, and then turned to him, putting her back to the sunlight that shone in through the glass.

"I found some pants in the attic that should fit you, and some shirts. You will shower when you're done eating, and when I redress your wounds, you can see if they fit." He nodded, spooning up more broth.

She was very good, he noted, at changing the subject away from anything that had to do with herself. It would be interesting, very much so, to see what would get her to tell him something about herself. But for now he simply sat and ate, allowing the warm broth to soothe the ache in his throat and fill the hole in his stomach.


	5. Chapter 5

Brody Warfield was not a man accustomed to simply laying around. Everything in him told him to get up and do something. In the two days that he'd been at Baudelaire Castle-as he mentally referred to the rambling old house-his mind had been racing, demanding movement. But his body, his battered body, had demanded rest and sleep. In this case, his body had won.

Because it had, he'd spent much of his time sleeping or lying around on the couch, drifting in and out. He began to feel guilty that Violet, little more than a stranger, was forced to care for him day and night, helping him change his clothes and move about a little. Hell, she'd even had to help him shower when standing for so long had proved too difficult.

During the day, he was most often lying on the couch, or propped in a chair next to the window. At night, with the help of the clever little hidden elevator she'd showed him, she helped him upstairs to one of the many guestrooms. Knowing she slept across the hall, alone but for the cat she called Quigley was its own kind of torture.

And now, on this third day, she'd helped him outside, where he could sit on the front porch in an old rocking chair. Quigley wound around his feet, rubbing against his leg and purring in a way that had Brody chuckling, patting his lap so that the sleek cat leaped up, curling up and purring in delight as Brody's large fingers petted and stroked. And while he sat there, letting the sun warm his face, she roamed the beach, her feet bare as she tilted her face up towards the sun, a small collection of sea shells in her arms.

This was where she belonged, he thought, out in the sunlight, with the breeze teasing her hair and her toes in the sand. Far too often she locked herself away in the building of wood and stone, secluding herself with her books and her tea and her cat.

Why she would choose to hide herself away, he couldn't say. God knew she was smart. He'd heard her working in the night, the muffled sound of hammering and sawing echoing through the halls. And there were strange inventions hanging around everywhere, from the automatic rolling pin in the kitchen to the mechanical crowing rooster on the roof-something he'd heard long before he'd actually seen it. And once when he'd thought to waste some time with her books, he'd picked one up, only to find it full of complicated equations and technological terminology that he hadn't even been able to begin to understand.

She was, by all accounts, a bright, creative woman who willingly locked herself away on this island, surrounded by the sea and the sand and the trees. To a man who thrived on the comfort that came with being surrounded by others, he just couldn't understand. God knew he wanted to, but she just wouldn't open up to him.

When Violet turned towards the house, she found him staring at her again. He was always, always staring. It was enough to make a body uneasy. She shifted the seashells she held in the crook of her arm, using her free hand to brush a strand of hair back away from her face. Damn it, he was making her conscious, which wasn't something she'd had to worry about in quite some time. No doubt about it, he'd have to leave soon.

With a small sigh, she walked forward, keeping her eyes defiantly on his as she approached. "You've color back in your face, at least. Best come inside now, before that color turns to a burn." She said mildly, walking past him through the door. She heard him rise slowly and follow her into the kitchen, where she was meticulously placing the shells she'd collected out on the counter. God knew what she'd used them for, but it had pleased her to find them, to collect them and brush away the sand to reveal the beauty of them.

As he always did now, Brody sat at the table in the chair facing the window, the cat winding around his legs. And, just like always, he watched her brew the tea, her long, slim hands strong and steady as she lifted the kettle and poured the steaming liquid into mugs. And just like always, he touched her arm as she set his cup down in front of him, waited until she met his gaze.

Offering a smile, he was ridiculously pleased by the cautious wariness that came into her eyes. "I'm grateful," He said simply, just like always. And, just like always, she sighed, eased her arm away and patted him once on the shoulder, the only contact she gave willingly.

"So you've said. I suppose you want a cookie for being such a polite boy." When he only kept smiling at her, with such patient amusement in his eyes, she turned away, took a moment to steady her pulse as she reached for a tin, pulled out two cookies that she had baked recently. Placing them on a plate, she slid those in front of him as well. And if she felt a bit of a tug, watching this big man with the goofy grin eat the cookies she'd baked, it was easy enough to dismiss. After all, he'd be gone soon enough. And there would be no more tugs, and no more patient smiles that made her feel ever so uncomfortable.

With another sigh-she sighed far too much, in Brody's opinion-She settled down across from him with her own tea, her chair angled enough that she could still see out the window a bit. "As to the matter of your returning to the mainland," She said, and immediately had his attention, his eyes narrowing on her face. She wasn't looking at him, but at the window, her gaze on the clear blue waters and, just beyond that, the jagged rocks.

"There's an old boat stored in the shed out behind the house that I've taken a look at. It's in need of some repairs, of course, but its sturdy enough, and should get you back to the mainland without issue. Once your wounds are healed and the repairs are finished, we'll get you back home quick enough." She thought of the old boat she'd found in the shed, and thought that 'some repairs' was a bit of an understatement, given the tiny boat's questionable condition, but still quite apt. He would be gone from this island within two weeks, three at the absolute most. And then everything could return to how it had been before.

While she thought of returning, Brody's only thought was in how he could convince her to let him stay. She had been brought into his life for a reason, of that he was positive. It wasn't merely coincidence that had plopped him on her doorstep, no sir. This, in his mind, was fate. And who was he to question fate?


	6. Chapter 6

In the week that Brody had lived with Violet in the giant house, he'd learned many things. He'd learned, because he'd asked, that she was the mastermind behind VB Back to Basics, a product line on the mainland that was composed of affordable, dependable products that achieved things in ingenious, wonderfully simple ways. Wonderful inventions, he thought now, and still chuckled when he remembered how she'd simply blinked at him, a bit of color rising in her cheeks when he'd told her that these days he bought nothing but Back to Basics when it came to home appliances. He'd embarrassed her, and it was oddly…satisfying.

He'd also learned that the room she slept in every night was not, as he'd assumed, actually the one she referred to as her room. No, her bedroom was up in one of the house's towers. She'd moved down temporarily to see to him should he need help in the night. She'd done it without a word, without a thought, and that too had satisfied him. Whether she acknowledged it or not, the girl had a heart, and it was that heart that had her taking in a stranger and caring for him for all these days.

Brody was also starting to learn the fine art of making Violet blush. Smooth lines wouldn't work, not with her, or long, steady looks. No, the lines amused her, and the looks put her back up. But it was straight truth that often had color rushing into her cheeks before she turned away. If he called her beautiful, she stuttered. If he called her brilliant, she avoided his eyes and changed the subject. It was, in his mind, fascinating.

She drank her tea, every day, at precisely nine in the morning, one thirty in the afternoon, and seven o'clock at night, until it came so that he could set his watch by her. And often she carried another cup upstairs with her late at night, where he'd hear her working on some other invention, the sounds echoing through the drafty house.

That was something else he'd noticed. She was always, no matter how hot the fire burned or how hard the sun beat down, so cold. Not freezing, but cool enough that it had him wondering. He found himself wanting to bundle her up in the blankets she'd piled on him that first night, to hold her until that smooth skin warmed. But to give in to that urge would be to put her shields up right away. The wall she always had between them was hard and thick, and he was still learning how to chip away at it. And every time he managed to put a dent in it, she was on the other side, doing her best to hammer the dent back out again.

Because his wounds had been healing quite well, the strength returning to his body, he was up and walking around now, though he still tired easily. Because he still felt guilty for leaving her to do everything for so long, he made a point of waking early and sweeping or dusting, writing down a list of minor repairs that the house needed. She'd done a great deal of work on it herself, which had been apparent from the beginning. But still, it was a huge house for one person, and she couldn't be expected to care for it all by herself.

With a pair of the pants Violet had dug out for him tugged on as an afterthought, Brody walked barefoot out the front door, forgetting, as he usually did, to throw a shirt on. The sun shined down on skin already tanned from years of sailing and manual labor, and the wind ruffled hair that was accustomed to being blown about by the breeze.

It was a lonely place, no question, but peaceful all the same. He walked along the coast for a bit, lost in his own thoughts. He only stopped when he felt grass beneath his feet, and realized abruptly that he'd reached the forest portion of the little island, the tall trees looming in front of him.

That's where Violet was now, he knew, as she'd left him a note on the door for when he'd woken up that morning. The note had said only: 'I'm in the woods for a bit. Do as you please, but stay out of the top floor and the towers. Don't follow me.' That had been hours ago, since he'd risen at dawn and found the letter. God knew she always managed to wake up before him, no matter how early he rose.

He hesitated for a bit, checking the watch he'd borrowed, and saw that it was just past noon. She'd been gone for over six hours. That, in his opinion, was far longer than 'a bit.' His brain automatically envisioned the worst possible scenarios. Maybe she'd gotten lost, or been bit by some poisonous animal. Perhaps she'd fallen off the cliffs she'd told him were on the other side of the island, or had gotten hurt in some way.

With a murmured oath, he jogged back to the house, stretching out muscles that had long been dormant. Not stopping to think about the fact that he had no idea where he was going, he slipped on a battered pair of sneakers, stuck his arms through a button up shirt that he never thought to button. In a few minutes he was jogging out again, searching along the back of the house until he found what looked to be like a well-trodden path in the grass.

Offering up a prayer that he wouldn't embarrass himself by getting lost in the woods, he took the first step into the trees, and almost immediately had to adjust his eyes as the bright sun was blocked out by the canopy of trees. But there was definitely a path here, the grass worn thin where feet had trod over it countless times. Moving carefully over the hilly, rocky terrain, he kept his eye out for Violet or-God help him-carnivorous creatures. He really, really should have asked Violet what lived on the island.

It took him half an hour to realize that the woods were pretty much one gradual incline, and this time the curses he let loose weren't murmured, but growled out as his breath began to come heavier. But damn it, it was too late to turn back now, and he'd be damned if he'd admit, even to himself, that he wasn't quite strong enough yet to handle a few hills.

Taking a moment to catch his breath-he was suddenly feeling the heat of the sun even through the cool canopy-He glared at the path, imagined Violet walking this distance easily. She could probably walk this damned thing in her sleep. Shaking his head, he pushed off a tree and began trudging forward once more, shirking off his shirt again and tucking it into his back pocket as sweat began to pour down his back.

It took him a moment to realize that the trees were thinning out. By the time it occurred to him that the sun was shining, the grass had given way to hard, gray rock, and he stepped out onto what he quickly discovered were the sheer cliffs of Baudelaire Island.

They were…magnificent wasn't good enough, not nearly good enough. The sea stretched out for miles, so blue you couldn't tell where the sky stopped and the water began. The sun sent the water sparkling, and in the distance a gull let out its call, swooping low over the water before shooting up into the sky again.

His breath heavy, he stepped out into the sun, narrowed his eyes when he saw something on one of the taller cliffs. Walking forward, he made the short trip up the cliff, and his narrowed eyes widened when he saw that what he had seen was in reality three stone crosses, seeming almost to grow up out of the stone. The first cross had the name 'Klaus Baudelaire' carved into it, the second 'Sunny Baudelaire'. And the third cross, separated from the first two by about half a foot of space, read simply 'Quigley'. There were circlets of fresh braided flowers hung atop each one, a sign of mourning and remembrance that Brody knew could've come only from Violet.

No, he thought, she wasn't heartless, not at all. He thought of the cat who was forever winding around his feet, the one she called Quigley, and of the way she avoided any questions he asked her that dealt with family. This memorial, this secluded little cemetery, told him so much more than her words ever could have.

"What are you doing here?" It was those particular words of hers that had him jolting, turning to his right. She was standing there, between the cliffs and the trees, her hands in her pockets, her hair blowing a bit in the breeze as she stared at him. The look in her eyes said, quite clearly, that he had crossed some line of hers and that he was anything but welcome here.

Instead of acting guilty, as he knew he probably should have, he gestured to the crosses, watched her gaze snap to them for an instant before they darted away. "Who are they, Vi?" He asked softly, keeping his eyes locked on her, and watched her pull the wall up between them once again.

"Them? They're nothing but dust now. You shouldn't be here." She wanted him gone, away from this place. The cliffs were hers, had always been hers. And now here he was, trespassing on what was, to her, sacred ground.

She watched his face harden, and when she thought-hoped-he would turn away, instead he stepped towards her, his own hands sliding into his pockets as hers had.

"Don't change the subject. You made those crosses for them. They mattered. Don't make it sound like they don't." He said, and his tone made her feel ashamed. Because it did, her temper rose to cover the hurt, and her eyes frosted.

"Of course they mattered. I loved them. But they're none of your concern." She said, and when she would have turned away from him, he stepped forward again, grabbed her arm, heat and cold, and had her gaze snapping back to his.

"You matter. You're my concern, damn it. Tell me who they were. Just give me that." How could she say no, she wondered dimly, when those eyes of his, those stormy gray eyes, seemed to be able to see right down to her soul? For her own self preservation, she pulled away from him, reclaiming some sense of control as she stared through him, towards where she knew the crosses stood, symbols of people who were no longer anything but memories.

"They were mine. Klaus was thirteen, Sunny was three. I was the oldest, so I was supposed to look out for them. And Quigley…Quigley might have been my husband. They were all claimed by the sea. They died while I lived. They were mine, and I couldn't protect them. I was supposed to protect them. You shouldn't concern yourself with someone who couldn't do even that."

She turned away from him then, and he let her go, watching as she disappeared into the woods. And it was a long while before he too started back, discovering the downhill journey to be much easier. But his mind was on nothing but the three lonely crosses on the lonely cliffs of Baudelaire Island.

She'd told him, as he'd wanted her to. But the answer…The answer wasn't as easy to deal with as he'd hoped.


	7. Chapter 7

As a man who'd grown up in a house dominated by females, Brody knew when a woman was giving him the silent treatment. And this, in his opinion, was not what Violet was doing. No, she wasn't silent. What she was, he thought, was brutally polite.

She spoke to him as she might a stranger, in cool, clipped sentences and with minimal eye contact. He'd never be able to say she ignored him, as she was constantly changing his bandages, rubbing salve on the sunburns he'd suffered from during his little trip to the cliffs. She cooked for him, hung out his wash, and asked –though she obviously didn't care very much– what he'd been up to during the day while they ate dinner. But one of the things that told him he was definitely in some deep you-know-what was the way she addressed him. She was calling him 'Broderick' now. Not 'Brody' or 'sailor' or even Mr. Warfield. She simply called him Broderick, in the same tone his mother did when she was none too pleased with him but refused to tell him exactly what he'd done wrong.

Not that he needed to be told that, of course. He knew what he'd done. He'd infringed on her privacy, had followed her after she'd told him not to. She'd obviously been having a private moment, and there he'd been, trudging up the hill and demanding answers during her moment of grieving. And there was no doubt in his mind that she had been grieving. Beyond the calculated blankness in her gaze had been pain, pure and simple. That pain had deepened when her gaze had gone to the three crosses on the cliff, and he'd used that pain, that vulnerability, to get answers out of her that he'd selfishly considered his right to know.

He'd tried to make it up to her, of course. He'd pulled out every trick in his arsenal. He'd brought her flowers –and had been subtly scolded when she'd figured out right away that he'd taken them from her gardens. So that had done nothing to put her in a better mood, though she had put them in a vase. But he suspected that was only so they wouldn't die and go to waste.

He'd gotten up before dawn that morning to cook breakfast for her and do some cleaning. And even then he'd still come downstairs to find her already up and cooking, the cleaning long since finished. He'd offered her –at last count– four sincere apologies, which had all been accepted with a cool nod and a subtle dismissal. He'd gone out and plucked shells from the sand for her, shining them to a bright gleam and arranging them on the kitchen table for her. She'd taken one long look at them and had proceeded to scoop them into glass jars that she set about the house. Once again, seeing as she had shown no pleasure in the offering, he had to assume that she'd only done it so as not to waste his efforts.

Hell, he'd even tried complimenting her on anything and everything, trying to get through. But there had been no blushes, no stammering or momentary pauses. She'd simply arched a brow, every time, in a look that clearly said she was not amused. He was running out of tricks, and for a man who'd rarely had to do more than wag his finger to have a willing female come running, it was a huge blow to the ego, not to mention his dignity once he found himself contemplating getting down on his knees and begging for forgiveness. Now that was something even he wouldn't do.

No, she'd erected a second wall between them to go along with the first, and all of his efforts just seemed to be bouncing right off of her. She permitted no touching, no idle chitchat. Alarmingly, she seemed to be dedicating much more time to fixing up the old boat in the shed, as throughout the day he'd heard banging and the sound of a saw coming from behind the house.

Of course, every time that hammer hit, his resolve grew stronger. He would not leave this place. He would not leave her. Perhaps even he couldn't explain the strange pull he felt towards her, towards this place. All he knew was that even the thought of sailing away from this little island, away from the mysterious and lonely Violet Baudelaire had his heart aching and his stomach twisting. Shaking his head, he stood at the kitchen window, much as she did every day, with the cat winding around his legs.

Bending down –something that was much easier these days– he scooped up the cat, rubbed his cheek against Quigley's sleek fur. "At least you still love me. She treats you better than any human, boy." He murmured, sending the cat into purrs of ecstasy by scratching him between his ears.

Quigley, he thought, the loyal cat named after a dead…lover? The title didn't really matter. What did was the fact that, at one time or another, Violet had loved the boy enough to erect a cross in his memory, to name her beloved pet after him. A pet, he thought with a humorless smile, that she treated with more patience, more compassion, than any human.

What went through her mind, he wondered, when she looked at this creature who stared back with such solemn, adoring eyes? Did she remember the Quigley who'd lived so long ago? Did she remember a lost love, a lost life? And if so, why would she do that to herself? Surround herself with memories of those who were dead and gone, blaming herself for something that happened when she'd been nothing but a child herself. And there was no doubt in his mind that she blamed herself. It was in her voice, in her eyes, in the way she punished herself by staying alone on this island. He'd t that was why she stayed here, year after year, without human contact. Punishment for not being able to 'save' her family, her man, that's what this island was.

He looked out the window to the sea; saw a vast ocean full of possibilities, of promise. There was life below those calm waters, he knew, thousands of little lives. And there was life beyond the ocean as well, strong and true and real. But there, blocking the way back to that life, were the dead, dark rocks of Baudelaire Island. Obstacles, he thought, but not bars on a cage. She was trapped her by nothing but her own mind. And if he had his way, that would stop as well. He would not leave unless she came with him. And if she asked it of him, he would stay. Why, he couldn't say exactly. He only knew that to leave her would be to deny himself the best thing that had come to him in a long, long time. And Brody had never seen the sense in denying himself the things he really wanted.

That was how Violet found him when she entered the house, came into the kitchen looking for her afternoon cup of tea. She paused for a moment in the doorway, watching him; a strong, tanned man standing barefoot in her kitchen, with her cat in his arms and his eyes cloudy as he looked out towards the sea. He'd already put the kettle on to boil, she noted, and there were two cups set out on the counter beside the stove, the canister of her favored tea leaves waiting next to them. The counters had been wiped down, the herbs in her window box watered and a vase of freshly cut flowers set in the middle of the table. There were glass bottles of sea shells and colored pebbles placed here and there, the glass reflecting the light.

Little touches, she thought, that he had brought into the house, making it not just hers anymore. She couldn't bring herself to take those changes away, but it didn't quite sit right. She was always suspicious of things that didn't sit right.

With a little sigh, she stepped into the kitchen, watched him turn, meet her gaze. She held it for one beat, then two, before she turned to the stove, checked on the water. "You've been busy today, Broderick. Sit down and have some tea." She was careful to keep her tone light, just this side of friendly. She wasn't mad at him, not really. But this was really the perfect excuse to make him keep his distance. And then, maybe, she wouldn't find herself thinking about him all the time. She wouldn't have to worry about making the mistake of becoming attached to another human, another person that fate would snatch away from her at a moment's notice. She would not, could not care for this strong, persistent man who was forever looking at her with such patient tenderness in his eyes. It was enough to make a body uneasy.

He smiled at her now with those 'don't be mad at me' eyes of his, setting the cat on the floor again as he walked over to the table, sat down at what had become his chair. They both knew she wouldn't have appreciated him trying to help her with the tea.

"Quigley and I have been thinking deep thoughts. You've been running around all day, Violet." She didn't like the way he said her name, almost reverently, or the way his eyes softened a bit, whenever he said it. Because it made her vaguely uncomfortable, she shrugged a slim shoulder, poured boiling water over tea leaves.

"I enjoy keeping busy. Your wounds are healing quite nicely." Such short sentences he thought, so clipped and to the point. Did she realize that only increased his determination? Because he knew she probably didn't, he merely smiled again when she carried his tea over to him, kept his eyes on her back as she strode over to the window, sipping her tea as she looked out towards the ocean.

And where he had seen clear blue waters, she saw, just beyond the rocks and all around the island, a black hole, waiting to swallow her up. This was not, in her mind, a prison. It was a sanctuary from the dark, from the misfortune and grief that tried to drag her back into its hideous grasp. Where he had seen possibilities and promise, she saw death and despair. She could not live peacefully beyond the borders of this place. She could not breathe easily out there with the rest of the world, always looking over her shoulder, waiting for the next disaster.

"There are some beautiful places beyond this island. I would show them to you." She nearly jolted when she heard Brody's voice right next to her, nearly cursed when she turned her head and saw him standing right behind her, his lips next to her ear. Because her heart wanted to race, she set her cup down on the window sill, crossed her arms over her chest.

"There is beauty here as well. It's all I need." She stepped forward as much as she could to give herself some room, some space between him and her, sliding a little to the side.

"Maybe," He said easily, and decided now was as good a time as ever to test his luck. Reaching out, he put a hand on her arm; felt the quick, automatic jolt. She was cold, colder than normal, and he wondered what she'd seen when she looked out that window. But he didn't think of that now, not for long. He watched her spin around; saw the exact moment when she realized that by stepping forward she'd trapped herself between him and the wall.

He couldn't help but be flattered by the wariness that flashed into her eyes, the panic that had her pulse racing beneath his hand. Before she could slip by him –and God knew she was quick as a snake when it came to getting around him– he slid his hands down her arms, linked them loosely around her wrists, stepping forward even as she edged backwards, her back pressing against the wall.

"What…What do you think you're doing?" She was surprised she could speak, and wondered that her heart didn't just beat right out of her chest when he ran his thumbs over the undersides of her wrists. He was close, much too close, and she noted vaguely that he was much taller than one would think. She barely came to his shoulder, and so she had to tilt her head up to stare at him.

His lips quirking up at the edges, he eased closer, his eyes locked on hers. Who would've thought her eyes could be so wide, so dark? Her pulse was quick beneath his hands, confusion and panic in those big brown eyes of hers. For just a moment, he saw a pin-sized hole in the wall she always had up. And, knowing he wouldn't get another chance, he took advantage of that split second.

"Well, this is the only way I have left to apologize. It usually works." Without giving her a chance to speak, he ducked his head, and felt the punch to his heart, to his gut, when his lips touched hers. They were cool, like the rest of her, but they warmed quickly beneath his, and she tasted…God, there weren't words for it. There was sweetness there, just a hint of it, and strength that he'd been almost positive he'd find. But she tasted like the woods she walked through, dark and mysterious.

He tasted like the sea. That was the first competent thought that entered Violet's mind after it blanked completely. He tasted of the sea, and his lips were gentle on hers, persuasive. She didn't fight him. The thought never occurred to her, and if it had, she doubted she'd have been able to pull it off. Her body seemed to have gone limp, all the feeling in her body going into her lips and down to her wrists where his hands still held her still.

No one had ever…She knew what kissing was, of course, from books and movies and fairy tales. But she'd never actually…Oh, God. She made some noise in her throat, a little sound of distress as her wide eyes locked on his. Automatically his hands gentled, running soothingly up her arms, and then down again to her waist. Pressing closer, he slid his arms around her, one hand moving up to slide into her hair, tilting her face back a bit more.

"I'm sorry," He murmured against her lips, and kissed her again. "I'm sorry," He said it again, and his lips ran over her chin, her jaw, over her ear as he repeated his words one more time. When he felt her start to tremble, he eased back, and had to make himself take a step backwards when he saw her flushed face, her wide eyes.

"Am I forgiven?" He murmured, running his hands up and down her back, and almost chuckled at the blank, dazed look in her eyes.

"Um…What?" She could do nothing but stare at him as her system tried to level out, as her brain tried to reboot.

"Do you forgive me for yesterday?" He said patiently, brushing a strand of hair back from her face. He watched her blink, and fought the urge to smile when she seemed to forget how to speak for a moment.

"Ah…Yes, yes. Forgiven…Excuse me. I need to…pee." She said, for lack of anything better that could come to mind, and his eyes lit with appreciation as he stepped aside, gestured towards the door.

"Go right ahead, darling. I'll feed the cat." He watched her nod blankly, then snap herself back and slip around him, all but running out of the kitchen. He took a moment when she was gone to gather himself, to steady his own system.

It wasn't every day you kissed the love of your life stupid. No doubt she'd go out of her way to avoid him now. But at least she wouldn't be calling him 'Broderick' anymore. Shaking his head, he picked up her forgotten tea, took a sip as he looked down at the cat.

"She can run, but she can't hide. I'll catch her again, Quigley. Just you wait." And it was with this statement that Broderick Elton Warfield sat down to plan his battle strategy. But first he fed the cat.


	8. Chapter 8

Violet curled up in the window seat, absently running a hand over Quigley's back when he leapt nimbly up into her lap. She was in the second tower of the house, which was something of an observatory. She'd built sky lights into this tower, and almost an entire half of the rounded walls were covered in windows. The hidden elevator in the house didn't reach this place, or the other tower of the house. No, if one wished to reach this place, they must make it through the thick, locked wooden doors and wind their way up the staircase that circled the tower as it went up before finally reaching the landing.

It was the same with her tower bedroom –a room she'd taken to using again ever since what she mentally referred to as the Broderick Incident. When it came to her bedroom, however, she'd opted for more privacy, even if it was only the birds in the trees watching. There was only a single window in that tower, with her favored window seat built in there as well. The whole room was dominated by the four poster canopy bed, carved of sturdy, aged oak and draped in an almost translucent black canopy. It was in that room, filling the carved shelves and fighting for space on the nightstand and dresser that she had placed all the pictures she had of her family. There weren't many, as candid photos hadn't exactly been a priority all those years ago, but enough that she could look and see and remember. And sometimes the remembering, the drawing up of those pleasant memories, was enough to keep the nightmares at bay when she slept.

What would Brody say, she wondered, if he knew that the woman he always stared at was so weak as to be afraid of going to bed at night? He'd think her pathetic…No. No, he wouldn't. Closing her eyes, she rested her forehead against the window glass, her hand pausing on Quigley's back. No, he wouldn't think her pathetic. He'd simply smile in that…Brody way of his and try to fix it. He was she always trying to fix things. He was always trying to fix her.

Despite herself, her lips curved a bit, and Violet felt a tightening in her chest as she thought of the way he looked at her, how he smiled at her. He was good, right down to his bones. There was no denying that. He was a good man, sure as anything, and even she could see that he was trying to…fix her was the only term she could think of. Improve, maybe, or…enhance.

'You should smile more, Violet. You're beautiful when you smile.' 'Come walk out in the sun with me, princess. It'll make you feel good.' Little things, she thought, just little things that he said throughout the day, trying to pull her out of the shell she'd made for herself. It was as though he truly cared about her. And that she just couldn't understand. She'd done nothing to encourage him. In fact, she'd done everything in her power to discourage…whatever it was he was doing. And the more he closed in on her, trying to break through the wall she'd built up for years, the more her survival instincts kicked in.

And those instincts told her that he needed to leave, leave before he awakened feelings inside her that she'd kept firmly locked away for so long. So she would build his boat, she would tend his wounds. But he would not touch her heart.

Even as she told herself this, the part of her anatomy in question ached, and she rubbed a hand over her chest, as though to ease the sharp pain. Instincts were one thing, but it was hard to argue with her heart. And, as guarded as it was, there was no denying that her heart warmed around him, trying to thaw away the ice she'd layered it with for so long. He reminded her –painfully so- just how lovely the sound of a laugh could be, how comfortable it was to sit by the fire with someone else next to you.

His was the first laugh she'd heard in years. His hands were the first to touch hers in ages. His lips were the first to warm hers in…ever. She, who never lost her cool, was flustered by this young man with the goofy grin and gentle, sea-colored eyes. Even as she warned herself not to think too deeply into the attention he gave her –she was the only other person around, after all- her heart sighed as she thought of the way he looked at her, so patient, so watchful.

He made her feel –when she let herself feel such things- special. He made her feel so special, and…and wanted. She couldn't remember the last time someone had looked at her as if just seeing her face improved the day. She couldn't remember if anyone had ever done that, come to think of it. Would he still look at her that way, she wondered, if he knew what she'd done? If he knew that she'd lied, cheated, stolen and all manner of other things before she'd even been old enough to drink?

Shaking her head, Violet snuggled the cat, pressing her cheek against his fur. It didn't matter anyway. He didn't need to know. He'd be gone soon enough, and then she'd stop feeling…whatever it was she was feeling. He'd be gone, and she'd be left alone with her cat and her cliffs and her castle…Why that made her want to cry, she couldn't say. But it had tears stinging the backs of her eyes all the same, and she was blinking them away when she noticed movement through the window, on the sand below.

Frowning, she leaned closer, let out a breath when she saw it was Brody, jogging along the beach. Even from this distance she could see that his movements were much looser now than they had been before, his pace quicker and steadier. It relieved her –though she'd rather it didn't- that he was healing quickly, and that he didn't seem to be in nearly as much pain now.

His head turned towards her, and despite the distance between them, she could've sworn their gazes locked, for just a moment. But even as the thought crossed her mind, she saw him falter, and was already on her feet, dislodging the annoyed cat from her lap, when she saw him fall flat on his face in the sand. When he didn't get up, merely laid there, her heart shot up into her throat.

"Brody," His name burst from her lips, as it never would have had he been able to hear her, and she all but flew down the stairs, impatiently bursting through the thick doors. She ran out of the house at a dead sprint, her bare feet slapping against the sand, the hot sun hitting her bare arms and legs. He was still laying there when she crossed the sand to reach him, sprawled inches from the water that lapped at the shore.

"Brody," She said his name now, as she so rarely did, dropping to her knees beside him as she shook his shoulder, pushed until she managed to roll him over onto his back.

She had just a moment to see that his eyes were open; his lips curved in a grin, before he grabbed her wrist, pulled her down on top of him. She let out a yelp, pulled in a gasping breath as he wrapped his arms tight around her and rolled so she was pinned beneath him, her back pressed against the hot sand. Gaping, she couldn't even blink as he roared with laughter at her expression, and she vaguely registered the feeling of water lapping at her feet.

"Good morning, Violet." He said, grinning, and it took a few moments for her to remember how to speak coherently. Here she was, pinned by the very man she'd been avoiding for days, her heart pumping double time as his face stopped inches from hers, his gleaming eyes locked on her own.

"You…What do you think you're doing?" She demanded, wriggling a bit to try and escape, but found that only made matters worse. The man, she quickly discovered, had an iron grip when he felt the need to use it.

"You've been avoiding me, princess. It's quite rude, you know." He spoke cheerfully, as though they were friends gossiping in the kitchen instead of a shipwrecked sailor pinning down his savior on the sandy beach of a practically uninhabited island.

"I…I thought you'd hurt yourself. You were faking it." She said, her eyes narrowing accusingly, and instead of bothering to look guilty, he chuckled, nuzzled his cheek against hers in a way that had the breath clogging in her throat.

"Guilty as charged, darling. But you know it was the only way to get you within three feet of me. And it worked." His grin flashed as he eased his head back again, and she struggled to regain her senses, to scavenge up some functioning brain cells.

"You have to…you have to stop this, Broderick. You've no right to touch me so freely and no…" Her thoughts blanked for a moment when his hand came up, his fingertips brushing over her cheek, and she swallowed hard, wished her hands weren't so completely pinned between the two of them.

"No what, darling?" He asked, an unholy gleam in his eye, and she took another moment, another breath.

"You've no right," She continued determinedly, "to go around pretending to hurt yourself just to get my attention. It's childish, Broderick." When he laughed again, her eyes narrowed, her breath hissing out when his lips brushed her forehead.

"It's 'Broderick' again, is it? So very formal you are today, Violet. You know what you need?" He appreciated the wariness that shot into her eyes, just as he was vastly amused by the suspicion that followed it. She was no fool, this one. But oh, there was innocence there behind the brain. And it was time that innocent got a chance to come out and play.

"Yes, I do. I need you to get off me. You're heavy, Broderick." She'd barely finished the sentence when his weight left her. And then, just as quickly, she had a moment of weightlessness as he swept her up into his arms, standing ankle-deep in the water.

"You need to do something foolish. Like jumping into the ocean fully dressed." His laughter exploded again at her 'What the hell are you thinking' look that she sent him, and when he stepped deeper into the water, he tightened his grip on her when she struggled.

"No! No, are you insane? Put me down this instant! Broderick!" When he merely continued to wade into the water, his trousers sticking to him like a second skin, she had to hold back the instinct to squeal as, the water up to his waist, she felt her feet glide along the water.

"It's a great day for a swim, Vi. I'm glad we decided to do this." He said cheerfully, taking a moment to appreciate the length of her slim legs as she kicked them, obviously trying to make contact with some part of his body.

"Broderick! Put me down this instant!" She wriggled in his grasp, and he stopped, raised a brow as he glanced down at her.

"Well, sure, Vi. Why didn't you say so?" Gleefully, he tossed her up in the air, and she managed one shout of 'Brody!' before she hit the water and went under, splashing water everywhere. Oh, he'd pay for that later, he thought. But for right now, he was going to have his fun as well.

As soon as she surfaced, sputtering, soaked, and pushing her hair out of her eyes, he laughed, hooked an arm around her waist and brought them both under again, spinning with her in the water, kicking up water. He felt her fist connect with his shoulder as he pulled them out into deeper water, and when they surfaced this time, treading water, he simply waited and grinned while she spat out water and rubbed her eyes.

And when she opened them, glaring, he saw murder in her eyes. "Give it your best shot, Baudelaire." He invited, holding up his arms, and had one moment to appreciate the feral glint in her eye before she leaped at him, taking him by surprise with her speed as she pulled him under. Of course, as soon as she caught him off guard she tried to swim away, darting towards the shore in a way that had him thanking whoever had designed the shorts she was wearing. God, but the woman had a pair of legs on her.

But, unwilling to let her escape so easily, he grabbed her ankle, pulled them both to shallower water, drawing her in close to him in a way that had her squirming and wriggling enough to have his own blood pumping with heat.

He pushed them both to the surface for air, his feet touching bottom now, his fingers digging into her sides. A breathless giggle escaped as he tickled her mercilessly, had her batting at him, grabbing at his hands.

"Brody! Brody, stop, stop!" She said it on a laugh, forgetting herself for a moment as they splashed in the water like innocent children. But it couldn't stay innocent.

Gradually she became aware of how close they were, of the way she was pressed against him, chest to chest, his hands clamped on her waist. And as her eyes met his, her pulse pounding in her ears, she saw that he'd realized it too.

"Violet," He whispered her name like a prayer –soft and reverent- and it was he who moved, he whose arm wrapped around her waist, his other hand moving up her back and into her hair. She was trapped by those eyes –those stormy, swirling eyes- and could do nothing but stare into them as he urged her closer.

He kissed her on a sunny summer morning, with the sun shining down on the calm ocean waters and making it sparkle like diamonds. Those diamonds clung to her face, her lips, her hair as he pulled her close, as his lips met hers. They watched each other, brown staring into sea-blue.

"Kiss me back, Vi. Kiss me back," He murmured, and before her brain could catch up, before she could remember all the reasons she should be anywhere but here, doing anything but this, her arms circled his neck, her hands delving into his drenched hair. She sighed as her eyes closed, as he kissed her again, as her lips warmed beneath his.

His hand pressed against the small of her back, and instinctively her back arched a bit, her legs coming up to wrap around his waist. She was weightless in the water, and he held her easily, skimming his lips over her jaw, her cheek, over her closed eyes. God but she was sweet.

And for just a moment or two, on this particular sunny summer day, Violet Baudelaire forgot that this couldn't last. And for now, with her heart determinedly blocking all logic, it was enough.


	9. Chapter 9

Brody walked with a spring in his step, whistling despite the fact that he was dripping wet and currently locked out of the house. Such a punishment was well worth it, he decided, since it had meant getting a taste of the lovely Violet Baudelaire.

Smiling fondly, he recalled the smell of her, the feel of her pressed against him in the water. Oh, she'd remembered herself soon enough, he thought, and wanted to laugh when he remembered the way she'd frozen, jerking back as though burned. And she'd stuttered. She'd stuttered a lot. And that, he mused, was adorable as well as satisfying. He'd let her go, but only because that, besides the panic in her eyes, there had been a genuine flicker of fear.

He'd never forced himself on a woman, and he wouldn't start now. He didn't count that little trick in the sand as force. If she'd said no –and meant it- he would have stopped, maybe lightened the mood with a few jokes. But she hadn't said no –or if she had the look in her eyes had contradicted her words. And because she hadn't, things had gone far better than he'd hoped.

She could deny it all she wanted, but there was something there between them, something more than simple lust on his part. He'd lusted after women before, and he knew what that felt like. And sure, there was some of that with Violet, but it was more, so much more, with her. He loved her brain just as much as her body –and that was saying something considering his newest obsession with her legs- and took more care with her than any other woman he'd ever courted.

There was no doubt in his mind that this woman, and this woman alone, was what he'd been waiting for. She needed the care, just as much as he needed to give it to her. And hell, how could you not love a woman who kissed you in the sea one minute and slammed the front door in your face the next? Who could rebuild a boat just as well as she could cook a chicken? How could you not positively adore a lonely brown eyed angel who built crosses on cliffs and snuggled her cat? It would take a stronger man than he to turn from her, and a very stupid man to ever consider turning in the first place.

Since he wasn't stupid, he felt no guilt about –subtly- slowing down the pace of her work on the old boat in the shed. Perhaps some might have called taking a crowbar to the wooden planks and ruining hours of work childish, even insane. He called it strategy. And really, it wasn't even that noticeable. If she hadn't wanted him 'fooling around' with the boat, she shouldn't have locked him out of the house. He'd been laughing to himself when he slipped out of the shed again, the crowbar stowed back in its slot. And now he was walking aimlessly on the beach, whistling to himself and contemplating his next plan.

The whistling stopped, however, when a bolt of lightning lit the sky, and he noticed, shocked, that it had suddenly gotten darker, the sky above an angry swirl of dark storm clouds. Even as he swore, thunder clapped, all but shaking the ground he walked on, and the rain let loose, pouring down in fast, stinging drops that had him running for the house. Thunder rolled, and he quickened his pace, feeling the water hit his bare back.

Even as he reached the house, the front door swung open, and he barreled through it, skidding to a halt in the front hall, sliding a bit on the wood floor. At the sound of the door shutting again, he turned; saw Violet standing there, the cat cradled in one arm. She raised a brow, and he took a moment to just look at her, his heart sighing even as his lips curved into a smile. And then that smile turned into an all out grin as he realized what she was wearing.

"Well, look at you, darling." She was dressed, not in the old fashioned nightgowns she usually wore, but thick flannel pajama bottoms and a heavy hooded black sweatshirt, her hair tied back in a wet ponytail. There were fuzzy red slippers on her feet. It was obvious that she'd chosen such an outfit deliberately. It hid absolutely all of her figure, and was anything but inviting. Tilting his head to the side, he made a show out of studying her.

"I have to say, princess, flannel is never flattering." He almost burst out laughing at the satisfied relief in her eyes, but instead leaned against the wall, dripping water.

"But in this case," He continued, "I think you managed to pull it off. I could just eat you up." He did laugh now at the horror on her face, and all but doubled over with mirth, bracing a hand on the wall for support. Oh, God, he was a goner.

"I'm glad you find this all so amusing. Get in the shower before you catch a cold. You're dripping all over the floor." She said stiffly, fighting back the urge to blush. When he straightened, his laughing eyes latching on hers, her heart all but leaped up into her throat, and her pulse went unsteady. It was those eyes of his, she told herself. No one's eyes should gleam like that, like they could see right through her, right into her.

"I'll clean it up, Vi. That storm came out of nowhere." He spoke cheerfully, and she sighed heavily, as she often did when he was stubbornly upbeat.

"I'm surprised we haven't had one before this. It usually rains like this a couple of times a week around the island." She said, glancing towards the window. Following her gaze, he looked out, and saw what she meant. It seemed the storm encircled the island, surrounded by clear blue sky. Frowning, he stepped closer, absently brushed a hand over her arm. He didn't notice her stiffen, too focused on what he saw.

"I'll be damned…It really is just the island. It's just…Violet." He turned to her then, and his fingertips brushed over her cheek. She didn't react, only continued to look out the window, her eyes dark as she watched lightning rip through the sky and rain pound as the previously calm waters that they'd been in less than two hours before now churned fiercely. Angry waves shot up, crashing against the sand, turning the calm blue into churning black.

"My God…" He murmured, and because she seemed to see nothing but the black outside, he cupped her face in his hands, turned her to face him. She was so cold, he thought, so very cold despite the heavy pajamas. She looked at him then, and those dark eyes seemed to hold all the misery in the world. The cat, leaping down from her arms, rubbed against her legs, perhaps in comfort.

"It won't claim you, when it's time for you to leave. I won't let the water take you too. You've my word on that." She spoke tonelessly, as though in a trance, her gaze going right through him. Cursing mentally, he rubbed his thumbs over her pale cheeks, ignoring the fact that he was soaking wet and likely warping the wood beneath his feet.

"Nothing's taking me from you, baby. I promise." He kissed her temple, her forehead, soothing. In that moment she looked so vulnerable, so young, and so…fragile. And because she was, because he thought both of them needed it, he backed away from her, reached over and pulled down the blinds on the window.

"You're cold, darling. You should go have some tea." He murmured, and watched her draw herself back, draw herself in. Those eyes of hers cleared, and she didn't have it in her to blush or stutter. She was just tired, so very, very tired. Instead she rested her hand on his arm for a moment, perhaps in thanks, perhaps to steady herself since she suddenly felt so heavy, so…she didn't have the words, really.

"Yes…Yes, I'll make some. Go shower, Brody." Too weary to care about what she called him, she walked around him, made her way into the kitchen, the cat following close behind. And it was Quigley who looked back in the doorway, his wise eyes studying Brody for a moment or two before he faced forward and followed his mistress.

There was pain there, Brody thought, pain and resignation, and something else entirely. As he walked to the bathroom, peeled off his soaked trousers, he tried to explain to himself how the storm could exist only over the island. Wincing as he stepped beneath a spray of hot water, he felt his chilled skin warm quickly, and sighed as his tense body relaxed under the spray.

He'd made a promise just now, and it was one he intended to keep. Maybe he didn't know all there was to know about the mysterious Violet Baudelaire. But he would. Maybe he didn't understand what made this island so treacherous to outsiders. But he would. And maybe the woman he'd left in the kitchen didn't trust him enough to share all those secrets of hers, to let him into that heart of hers. But she would.

And she'd looked so…lost back there, so lost and broken. He'd give up several vital limbs if it meant never seeing that look on her face again. Her eyes had been so big, so dark, her skin so cold. Her face had been so…bleak when she'd looked out at the storm, at the crashing waves that had replaced the calm, cool waters. And for the life of him, he didn't know how to fix it. He couldn't fight against Mother Nature's elements, for God's sake. If he'd been a man prone to religious thoughts, he might've said that it had been like God himself had sent the heavens crashing down on them, smashing the calm that had settled over the island for just a bit.

Shaking his head, he stepped out of the shower, wrapped a towel around his waist. He padded down the hall to the kitchen, looking in, and what he saw all but broke his heart. She was sitting at the table in his chair –for over the past week it had become his- a cup of steaming tea at her elbow. Her arms were folded on top of the table, her head resting on them. From her deep, even breathing, it was easy enough to see she was fast asleep, and his heart ached as he saw the shadows under her eyes, the tense way her fingers dug into her arms, even in sleep.

With a deep sigh, he walked upstairs, pulled on a pair of sleep pants. Walking back downstairs, he paused a moment at the harsh rumble of thunder, noted it didn't disturb Violet's sleep. She was used to it, he thought, remembering she'd told him it rained like this every week. Walking to her, he took a moment to brush a lock of hair back from her face, to trace his fingertip over her cheek.

She barely stirred, sighing and shifting a bit. Feeling a well of tenderness rise up inside him, he slid his arms around her, managed to lift her relatively easily from the chair. When she stirred, murmuring under her breath, he pressed a kiss to her temple, held her in his arms for a moment.

"Brody," Her eyes opened, just a bit, closed again as her head came to rest on his shoulder.

"Go back to sleep, darling. I've got you." When she drifted off easily, he realized just how exhausted she'd been, and wondered what she'd been up to that would take that much out of her.

Shaking his head, and tired himself, he walked into the sitting room, where the fire smoldered and the soft light of the candles she always lit flickered. Ignoring the rain pounding against the window, he walked over to the couch, sat down with her, and somehow managed to maneuver so that they were both lying down on the generous cushions of the couch. Her head pillowed on his shoulder, his arm locking her in place beside him, he tugged the blanket she kept on the back of the couch over them. She sighed again –it seemed she was always sighing- but burrowed into him, her cool skin warming against his.

"Sleep now, princess. The sun will be shining again when you wake up." He took his own advice, falling off to sleep as she did. And though the sky was black as pitch, the exhaustion settling on both of them like a heavy cloak, none of them realized that it wasn't even two o'clock in the afternoon. But then, stranger things had happened within the borders of Baudelaire Island.


	10. Chapter 10

Violet woke to a bright summer morning, with the sun filtering in through the open window. The first thing she really registered was that she was buried beneath several blankets, curled up on the couch. There was no lapse in memory, no momentary sense of confusion as to how she'd gotten to be there. No, she remembered exactly how she'd gotten here, and who had been with her. She remembered, perfectly, how she'd allowed the storm, the bleak destruction and sense of despair to get the best of her. Though she knew better, certainly knew better.

It was because Brody had been there, she told herself. His presence disturbed her peace, messed with her head. She'd have been fine if he hadn't been there, looking at her in that way he had. Because she was almost sweating beneath the layers of blankets, she shoved them aside, pushed herself up on one elbow as she brushed her hair out of her eyes. It was only a movement in the doorway that had her pausing, turning her head slowly.

And there was Brody, leaning against the doorjamb, watching her. But there was no grin on his face, no smile in his eyes. No, here was the Brody that scared her more than anything else, this serious, dark eyed Broderick who seemed to be able to see right through her. But he wasn't looking through her now. No, he was looking right at her, in a quiet, considering way.

Only when she pushed herself to a sitting position, looking rumpled and sleepy and wary, did he step forward, one side of his mouth curving up the slightest bit. "You sleep like a rock, princess." He said, and she noticed that the smile didn't reach his eyes. But then he was holding something out towards her, and her eyes shifted, saw he was holding a cup of steaming tea.

"Light, no sugar," He said, and she nodded slowly, taking the cup in both of her hands as he stood over her. She could think of nothing to say, nothing to make herself feel less ridiculous. So she went with denying anything had happened in the first place.

"I appreciate you covering me up last night. It wouldn't have been pleasant to catch a chill." This time he laughed, just a bit, but there was knowledge rather than amusement in his eyes.

"Come on now, Violet. Don't pull out the ice queen routine on me. Should I remind you what happened last night?" He pulled up a footstool, sat in front of her, close enough that she couldn't just stand up and walk away without having to try and skirt around him.

Slowly she raised the cup to her lips, sipped the tea he'd prepared. She was always wary of this Broderick, the one who smiled pleasantly even while his eyes darkened. You just couldn't trust that sort of expression on a man –especially this man.

When she didn't answer him, he chuckled humorlessly, scratching at a cheek dark from stubble he hadn't bothered to shave away this morning. He figured that when a man spent a restless night curled up with a woman who made his blood run hot, he was entitled to a bit of a five o'clock shadow.

"You and I, my darling princess, spent the night sleeping together, curled up on that couch. You, by the way, do not snore, which was greatly appreciated. And while you slept, I listened to the storm rage outside. A storm, I might add, that came out of nowhere and was only going on around the island. Your island, Vi," He watched her face as he spoke, watched the way she just shut down.

He'd seen it before, of course. Her eyes went cool and blank, her lips firmed into a straight, thin line. But lucky for him –not so much for her- he was getting much better at what was below that mask. Beneath the layer of indifferent ice in her eyes was wariness, and what might've been an apology for God knew what. She was clenching the tea cup in her hand, her fingers digging into the china until her knuckles were bone white.

But Brody mentioned none of this, only continued to look at her. Perhaps it wasn't playing fair, going at her like this when she was tired and off guard. But he was tired of playing fair, of dropping the subject and letting her walk away. So this time he'd just have to box her in, until she gave him the answer he was looking for.

"Why is it just you, Violet?" He leaned forward, lessening the gap between them, close enough now that he could see the flash of fear that moved ever so briefly over her face. He was scaring her. Good. Maybe, just maybe, it would get him some answers this time.

"Because," She finally said, wary defiance in her words, "I am a Baudelaire." She would have left it at that, would have risen and walked away, but he laid his hands on either side of her, boxing her in. His eyes, the look in them, left no room for argument, for avoidance. And that, too, scared her. She, who had lived most of her life avoiding that which would lead to further pain, arguing as a final defense, feared this man who would let her do neither.

"Violet," She almost flinched at the impatience, the anger in his voice, shrank away from it though she knew it was weak. The tea cup in her hands trembled for a moment before she steadied it, pulling in a deep breath through her nose as she stubbornly held Brody's gaze. As the last weapon she had, with nothing else prepared, she drew on her own anger and impatience. Brody seemed to be able to draw both emotions out of her with ease.

"And what is it to you, Broderick?" She snapped out, her eyes narrowing as she spoke in her most cultured, clipped tones. His brow rose a bit, in both appreciation and frustration. She wasn't going to make it easy. She was going to fight him, it seemed, every single step of the way. He couldn't have said why that gave him a kind of sick little thrill. Her color rose when she was ticked off, he noted, and her nose went right up in the air. A proper lady she was, even dressed as she was in those ridiculous flannel pants with her hair tousled from sleep.

"Like it or not, Violet, you're stuck with me. And I'm stuck with you, on this island. And when the island I'm stuck on is prone to freak storms – one of which destroyed my ship and tossed me on your doorstep – I think I deserve to know why." When she remained silent, her lips firming into a thin line, his eyes flared. He reached out, wrapped his fingers around her wrist, squeezing lightly. He saw the temper spike on her face, was darkly satisfied when she jerked her hand away, held it aloft as though she meant to strike him. Hit a nerve there, he mused, even as she lowered her hand, laid it in a fist on her thigh. After a long, tense silence, she huffed out a breath, ran her hand through her hair in a gesture of agitation he'd come to recognize from her. Rather than look at him, she looked once again towards the window, out where the sea was once again calm. After a moment, she let out a slow breath, nodded her head once, steadying herself.

"I have decided that it is a curse." When he didn't laugh, didn't comment, when she was certain he hadn't thought her foolish for voicing the words, she took another breath and continued on. "When I was fourteen, my parents were killed in a fire. Our home burned to the ground. My brother, sister, and I were put into the care of…Count Olaf." She visibly shuddered, and Brody resisted the urge to reach out and take her hand, which had begun to grip painfully tight around her knee. "He…He had thought that, by adopting us, he would get our inheritance. When he learned that wasn't the case…he devised some grand scheme to have me marry him. It can be done, you know, marrying a fourteen year old. With guardian consent. And he was…technically our guardian. It didn't work, of course, or I wouldn't be here right now. But that was just the beginning." She cleared her throat, took a sip of her tea. It was hard, even all these years later, to speak of it. To speak his name was to welcome him into her thoughts, her nightmares.

"We were sent, after that, to live with another uncle of ours. Montgomery Montgomery. Uncle Monty." She smiled, just a bit, as she thought of the delightful man with his precious reptiles. And then she simply closed her eyes, and her smile disappeared. "The Count killed him. Poisoned him with snake venom. And we were homeless again." She shrugged her shoulders, brushed aside the memory. It would do nothing for her now.

"It became like a pattern then. Wherever we went, Olaf would show up eventually. After Uncle Monty, it was Aunt Josephine. Hurricane Herman was going through the area, tossed the house clear into the lake. He – Olaf - tossed Aunt Josephine overboard in Lacrymose Lake, posing as a ship Captain. She was devoured by leeches. Leeches of all things. And Sunny…Little Sunny, she was only three. Only three, and she bit down on that horrible man's fake leg, showed everyone that it was the devilish Count come again to try and take us back. He escaped, and we were moved…again."

Brody could only stare as she spoke, his mind racing to try and process what she was saying. Count Olaf…He sounded like a…a story villain. And those just didn't exist, not in real life. But she wasn't joking. And she wasn't crazy. Of that he was certain. So he would listen. And he would believe. He owed her that much.

After a beat of silence, she swallowed the lump in her throat, kept her eyes steady on the sea. "They were running out of family members by that time. So they sent us to work instead. Lucky Smells Lumbermill is where they put us. One meal a day, paid in coupons…He found us there too. Posing as a receptionist that time. He…hypnotized Klaus. Hypnosis, of all things. We escaped that time as well. And they put us up at a boarding school. Austere Academy. Of course he was there. He was always…He posed as the gym teacher this time. We escaped, but he kidnapped…We had made friends. Foolish, but we had made friends. Duncan and Isadora Quagmire. They were our friends, and he kidnapped them." She shook her head at the absurdity of it, ran her hand through her hair once again.

"We were with the Squalors for a bit. Jerome and Esmé. They thought it would be…stylish to have orphans about, I suppose. But Esmé was working with Olaf. He was going by Gunther this time, an auctioneer. He…he auctioned off the Quagmires. We tried to save them. Couldn't. Something was always going wrong. Always." She shrugged her shoulders, pushed that aside as well. It simply wouldn't do to dwell on it.

"After that…" She smiled a bit, amused despite herself. "We were adopted by the Villages of Fowl Devotees…V.F.D. There was a man, a kind man named Hector. He took us in. There were some…complications. He found us again. Posing as a detective, he had us thrown in jail. So I put together a water pump, used it to loosen the mortar around the bricks in the cell. It was easy enough to use the cell's bench as a battering ram of sorts. We managed to help Duncan and Isadora escape with Hector, but now we were considered escaped convicts. Convicts. Can you imagine?" She chuckled humorlessly, and then it was she whose hand was reaching out. He wrapped his fingers silently around hers, watched as she gripped tight, let out a deep breath. Did she realize, he wondered, that her hands were trembling? He doubted it.

"Well, ah…let's see…It was the Heimlich Hospital after that. We helped a kind man named Hal in the library of records. Esmé was the one who found us first that time. They must have been a bit desperate, I think. Sunny and Klaus, they escaped, but she caught me. She and Olaf…I guess they figured they didn't much need me. Tried to cut my head off, right in the hospital. A "cranioectomy" of all things." Her neck ached just thinking about it. "Klaus and Sunny helped me escape, but Olaf…he set the hospital on fire, blamed it on us. We had no way out…so we hid in the back of his car. Of all places, it had to be there." She shook her head, closed her eyes once more. It had been perhaps the hardest decision she'd ever made, putting her siblings back so close to that vile man.

"Eventually he stopped, at this carnival. It was…Caligari. The Caligari Carnival. We didn't have many options then, so we posed as…freaks, I suppose. Madame Lulu, she ran the carnival…She worked with Olaf, but she…she wanted to help us. She wanted to help us, so he pushed her into a lion pit. We didn't have a way out, so we thought we'd just travel with the caravan. But he knew who we were. She'd told him. He took Sunny hostage, then unhooked the caravan from his car. And he was gone. He'd taken Sunny." She shook her head, bit her lip. She'd failed there, for letting her sister out of her sight for even a moment. Her strong, brave little Sunny.

"I, uh…I met Quigley while we were trying to get Sunny back. Quigley Quagmire. We became close. But, ah…It's quite complicated, really, the way we got Sunny back. But we did. So many absurd plans back then. Plans that never should have worked, but did anyway. Foolish, childish plans." She shook her head, though her lips curved again at the thought. The adventures they'd had, wanted or not. "We were separated from Quigley in the end. We were always getting separated from someone. In any case, we ended up on board the QueeQueg. Captain Widdershins and his daughter Fiona, they were fine people. I was turning fifteen then, and they…they threw a party for me. But Olaf showed up, of course, in this ridiculous octopus-shaped ship. He called it the Carmelita. We escaped from that as well. We always did escape eventually. We went to the beach, as Quigley had sent us a message. We were always using codes. Safer that way."

She was winding down, Brody saw, but she wasn't done. Not quite yet. Already she looked so tired, her shoulders drooping. Running his thumb over her knuckles, he offered what comfort he could, and wondered why he'd ever thought he needed to know what she hadn't wanted to tell.

"We ended up at the Hotel Denouement. Esmé, Olaf, all those sort were there. But then, they always were. There was…a trial. A ridiculous trial. Everyone was blindfolded, the judge was kidnapped. Then the hotel was on fire – everything always seemed to be on fire at some point- and we were in this makeshift boat, using giant spatulas as oars. It all sounds so ridiculous now. But Olaf was with us. The great evil fool of a man. We ended up on this strange island, headed by a man named Ishmael. My parents, it seemed, had ruled it before him. Imagine, ruling an island." At this, his lips quirked as he, too, glanced out the window, at her. Yes, he thought. Imagine that.

"There was a woman…Kit. She was very pregnant, very knowledgeable. Something…They called it the "Great Unknown," had carried off many of the people we knew. She said one of them had called my name. It was Quigley. I never saw him again. Or the others she named. There was a fungus going around. Olaf died from it. But so did Kit, just after giving birth to a baby girl. Beatrice. We took care of her. We were her parents, I suppose. Her brother and sisters. We needed to get her off that island. We needed to get her off, so we built a boat. We named it Beatrice." She paused then, collecting herself, blowing out a slow, not-quite-steady breath. This was the part, she knew, that would hurt most.

"We didn't make it. A storm came up. We'd almost reached the mainland when it came up, came out of nowhere. Our boat was crushed on the rocks. I had Beatrice in my arms when we crashed. Sunny and Klaus…They never came back up when we sank. I couldn't…I had the baby. I had to get her to land. So I swam to the beach, left her there on the sand while I went to go find my siblings. But every time…Every time I started to swim out, the waves pushed me back. Over and over and over again. The pieces of the ship washed up on shore. But they didn't. They never did. They couldn't." Her breath caught in her throat, her voice breaking on the last word. She would never forgive herself for that. For being unable to protect that which was most important to her.

"I…I was put in the foster system. They didn't know what else to do with me, with Beatrice. I took care of her. But she wasn't safe. Not when she was with me. So when I turned eighteen, I left her. I left her with a nice, loving family who would take care of her better than I could. And I came here. Back to the island that had once been the home of those strange people, the island my parents had ruled over. Except now there's no one left. No one but me. It's safer that way." She turned then, to look at him for the first time. She didn't cry, but her eyes were wet, hot.

"It's safer, Brody. Boats come, and storms drive them off, or crush them on the rocks. Birds don't fly over this island. Hurricanes plow through it. Shipwrecks wash up each month. You're not safe here, Brody. You're not, and I can't stand it. I can't." She did cry then, a single tear that slipped down her cheek, landed in her tea with a quiet plop. With a quiet murmur, he took her tea cup, set it to the side. She didn't fight when he pulled her into his lap, when he cradled her. Her face pressed into his shoulder, she didn't see the way his eyes went hard, bleak. He should have left it alone, he thought. He should have left the subject alone.

"You know," He murmured after a long moment, his hands running up and down her back. "I always thought safety was overrated."


End file.
